


sweat

by Keturagh



Series: False Fruit [22]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Clothed Sex, Coming In Pants, Electrocution, Established Relationship, F/M, Idiots in Love, Kissing in the Rain, Lemon, Rain, Semi-Public Sex, Sex, Short & Sweet, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22046101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keturagh/pseuds/Keturagh
Summary: He groans, and he shudders, and she loses herself for a moment.
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age)
Series: False Fruit [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1579504
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	sweat

**“Less a place/than a quality of heat/and sweat.” (The Attic, Judith Skillman, Coppelia, Certain Digressions)**

\--

Pinned between the rock and his body, he is lowering his teeth to her breasts and his lips are drawn back and he pulls a keening sound out of her throat when he bites her nipple, a warbling choking gasp and his hands are wide on her hips, guiding her to grind against the thigh that he’s nudged up between her legs.

“Rut. Harder.” he says against her breast.

She complies, whimpering, and they are both soaked. The rain rolls down in torrents, in punishing piercing sheets. She runs her hands over his wet, glistening head, dips to cover it, hot, with her lips, tonguing out to lick his brow, the stubble pulling rough on her tongue, because she wants him to know that she has wanted to do this since… since when? When did she first really notice his head? The baldness, the shine they ribbed him for. The distinction of it, the way it made his hard cheeks and sharp jaw look younger, the way -

He pulls her hips forward and there’s almost frustration in the grapple.

“Harder.” His voice lilts up, making the command seem like poetry, and she grits her teeth and she throws her head back and jerks her hips wild and wrecking on his thigh.

He groans, and he shudders, and she loses herself for a moment.

“Good,” he whispers.

She wants him to move her shirt — unpin her buttons or draw his hands and push the fabric up along her stomach — but he works her nipple between his lips and teeth as it strains hard and sensitive and wet through the cotton. He bites soft and slow, too slow, agonizing and transferring lightning, the _idiot_ , through his _teeth_ and shocking the rise of her nipple just so subtly, the magic just enough, and she wails and begs and requests _so kindly_ if he wouldn’t _please just more_.

The shape of his smirk on her breast is unmistakable. She grips his head harder, fingers curling around his ears, and rolls her hips against him the way she knows incites him: slow, with a certain catch in her moan, ass tipping and jutting out and, in moments, yes, his hands are wrapping back to clutch her and his mouth quickens on her breast and he helps her move against him, losing his control too.

The water sluices down into her eyes. It drips off her lips as her mouth hangs open around his name. She groans it open-mouthed again, and again, and she is so deliriously close. He hiccups, stiffens, and she hears him groan, “ _No_ ,” and then he is shuddering and he’s jerked his fingers up into the divot of her smalls, and he rubs certain and _hard and just right how does he_ against her so she comes for him, pouring and wailing and soaking the garments that are already soaked with rain, and she can’t see the outline of his spend in his breeches either because all of their clothes are dark with storm and sweat.


End file.
